Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood
by Crystallized Honey
Summary: With the death toll of humans steadily ticking upwards, Alfred has to turn to unlikely allies to ensure the safety of himself and everyone around him. The prospect of love is off the table, though Ivan has his heart beating for a reason that has absolutely nothing to do with imminent death.
1. Chapter 1

Smoke swirls lazily in the air, curling from the lit stems of cigarettes, pouring from between the teeth of slack mouths. A heavy fog smothers all occupants from wall to wall, assaulting sensitive nostrils and singeing dry throats.

It is not his first time visiting the Gamma den, yet, all the same, predatory growls are directed towards him, dangerously close to his ears, rumbling deep through his own body. Sharp eyes are drawn to his every move as he weaves in and out of the hazy crowd in search. Ironically, much too easily, the hunter becomes the hunted, the followed, the spotted. It barely takes a full minute for him to be under the watch of _his_ prey.

Frozen, pinned beneath the demanding gaze of an Alpha, Alfred observes as he slowly unravels the scarf twisted snugly around his neck. The material is neatly folded and handed to a woman lingering a foot behind him. She looks to be of equal status, unapproachable with her round nose pointed high. She accepts it without question, flowing brown curls cascading around her shoulders when she nods.

A short instance of eye contact is all he receives. No words are exchanged. None are needed. Alfred follows.

He is led into a room void of furniture except for one small wooden chair directly in the center. Tarp covers the walls, the floor, every inch of the tiny four-cornered area. When the door shuts, they are bathed in complete silence, all noises outside unable to pierce through insulation and resilient channel. The plastic rustles and crunches beneath the soles of his shoes, sometimes lifting in attempt to follow his steps.

"So, to what do I owe this warm welcome?"

"It's the same reason every time: I need information."

He waves a hand towards the chair, motioning for Ivan to take a seat. Briefly, Alfred wonders how awful it must feel for Ivan to sit in the same place he has executed others. The plastic may go through routine changes, and the chair may be different, but the room, the atmosphere of it, is permanent. He can feel it.

Alfred moves to loom behind the Alpha, slides a hand around the base of the man's neck, fingers trekking a lazy trail down to his chest. Against the palm of his hand, he can feel the steady throb of a beating heart beneath smooth, pressed linen. He withdraws his pistol, pulls back the hammer with a deafening _click_ , a silent urging to start speaking, just to send that pace fluttering quicker.

"About?"

"The Clan," he answers nonchalantly, dragging his hand from pec to shoulder. "There are bloodless bodies being discovered every second. Some not even hidden. As I'm sure you can imagine, us humans are getting a little restless."

"Is that it? You aren't going to try and fuck it out of me? What a surprise! You know how much I like it when you do." There is more to follow that exclamation, Ivan, ever the clever man, cuts himself off when the gun presses just a bit harder into his skull. "Little Alfred, I have told you time and time again that werewolves and vampires do not get along. I have no information for you."

How laughable. Amongst the residents within the moderately-populated city in which they are stationed, it is common knowledge that Ivan is a snitch. Or, if prompted by fear or companionship, an _information broker_. Either way, if one needs to know something, they can almost always receive that information from Ivan. Although, not without payment of a steep price, of course.

Prices remain on his unwritten Top Ten list of things he hates the most.

Alfred redirects the sight of his pistol, only to fire it in between Ivan's legs, careful to avoid piercing skin. Splintered wood erupts in the air, raining down in little pieces across the man's slacks. In seconds, the weapon is aimed at the pack leader's head once more. Both their ears ringing.

Leaning forward, Alfred whispers in his ear, silvery strands drawing tickles across his skin, "I wonder if you can smell the silver I'm about to embed in your skull. When I get agitated, my trigger-finger gets antsy."

"I am sorry, Alfred, but you know how loyal dogs can be."

Alfred scoffs, rolling his eyes at that sentiment. The wolves are anything but loyal when the standings of their pack are in jeopardy. And, if there is one thing he is absolutely sure of, it's that the werewolves have never been loyal to the vampires, no matter how tightly knit their ties are. Their story is an age old war that has long since lost its value.

"My little human is so bold," Ivan teases, continuing on, a mild threatening quality underlying each lilt. "He comes into the wolves' den-alone. With naught but a gun to threaten the Big Bad Wolf."

"You would never kill me."

At that, Ivan rises from the chair, turns to face Alfred head-on. Like lilacs frosted in a winter's night, the wolf's eyes are swallowed by a sudden frigidness. It is the expression he usually wears when his company is skating on thin ice. It says, _change the subject or we are done here_. And as badly as Alfred wishes to persuade the other into response, he is not there to fight.

"Tell me, Ivan."

"What would I be getting out of this?"

"Your den remains unregistered and un-invaded."

"Hm." Ivan contemplates the offer, making a show of pacing back and forth as if in deep thought before he freezes, head tilted just so in a childishly playful manner. "Not good enough. Those are things I can handle myself, you know."

"That's bullshit," Alfred protests. "You have more enemies than friends."

"Yes, but it's not what I want. In fact, I think you know _exactly_ what I want."

Ivan grasps Alfred by the wrist, and squeezes until he hisses in discomfort, eyes ablaze with unrestrained anger. Despite the gun in the officer's hand, he tugs him close, fingers curving into the dip of his spine.

Alfred, however, is not so easily wiled. The moment Ivan has him close enough to kiss his lips, cold steel is being shoved under the wolf's chin, slightly obstructing his breathing. "Ah, ah, ah. Names and locations first."

Ivan clicks his tongue and singsongs, wagging an accusing finger, "You are not tricking me with that one again, Alfred."

The subtle quirk of Alfred's lips signifies that he, too, remembers their one-sided fulfillment of a deal made months ago. Ivan, on the other hand, is not so amused by reminiscence. That small moment of trust is something he is still paying. He'll be damned if he allows himself to be enraptured by half-hearted promises again.

"Fine. We'll half the downfall. You give me a location and I'll..." Alfred's voice trails off, hands gesturing vaguely. Which is a strange sight to witness when the subject happens to be wielding a firearm.

Seeing as they have reached agreements with similar terms before, Ivan is well aware of what Alfred is hinting at, even with all his odd arm waving. Nevertheless, he needs to hear it spoken to avoid being cheated. Ivan is patient, awaiting an explanation. A better demonstration?

He does not expect to be hounded into pressing his back against the nearest wall, the other intimately close. Every move marked by the rustling of disturbed plastic beneath their feet. He certainly does not expect a hand to weasel its way beneath belt, button and hem, knuckles nudging into the skin of his pelvis. Despite the spike of arousal it feeds him, he clutches the other's forearm. Alfred's eyebrows raise in challenge, his taunting expression effortlessly complemented by a smirk.

"You are settling for half of what you originally wanted."

"On the contrary. You're stupid to think I'm going to arrive at that location without a familiar face as backup. And I know you have some sort of alliance going on, so you're my best bet. If that goes well, I'll give you what you _really_ want," Alfred proposes, fingers creeping through short, thin curls until they can trail heat and anticipation along Ivan's flaccid shaft. "That's all I'm offering."

"That is not fair. In the end, I am offering more."

Light touches instantly turn into a firm grip. The pressure of Alfred's hand around his cock gradually increases with each word spoken. It tightens until the physical force is bordering on painful rather than pleasurable, relatively uncomfortable, but warning, nonetheless.

"Take it or leave it."

In Alfred's opinion, no response from Ivan is almost as good as any agreement. So he closes the distance between them with a fierceness that rivals Ivan's own, gripping the man by the lapels. He leads him into a forceful kiss, though surprisingly tender, and guides his mouth, slick and ardent, against his own. When he pulls away, it is with Ivan's bottom lip seized gently between his teeth. And it is only when their eyes meet, that he releases the soft flesh with a resounding _smack_ of wet suction.

"Consider that to be a little down-payment."

Still, Ivan has no words, choosing to silently weigh his options. Admittedly, he is already mentally constructing a list of addresses.

"You're _too_ easy, Braginsky," Alfred laughs heartily. "Nice doing business with you."

Just like that, he saunters out of the room, gun tucked back into its holster, disappearing into the swarming fog of smoke and bodies as if nothing ever happened.


	2. Chapter 2

She is stripped down to her underwear when she is found, puncture wounds drilled into the side of her paling neck. Her skin horridly drained of color, brown eyes dull and unseeing, turned up toward the darkened sky. The sun, hidden behind full clouds, is in mourning.

She is dead.

Yellow tape is stretched around the perimeter of the scene, hovering above mounds of freshly fallen snow. Particles of ice glitter beneath his feet like fallen stars as cameras flash in rapid succession, snapping photograph after photograph in bright flickers of blinding light.

Alfred throws a hand up to shield his eyes from further damage, stoops down beside the young girl, and heaves out a sigh. Although lifeless, the terror she must have experienced in her moment of death remains etched on her face— _frozen_. Her lips, tinted blue, reminiscent of the snow's undertones, are parted as if her jaw is unhinged.

His eyes are drawn away by the rounded edge of a plastic card protruding from beneath the cup of the girl's bra. Immediately, he springs into action, fueled by curiosity, tugging a pair of gloves from his back pocket.

He pulls them on. The rubbery material snaps back against his wrists with a slap _._ He brushes away the frigid fluff that has accumulated on the surface and plucks the identification card away. A brief examination of the I.D. labels the girl as a college student— _former_ college student now.

 _Well, that's one way to get out of student loans,_ Alfred thinks humorlessly.

Everything begins to fall into place: two puncture wounds located on the neck, stripped of clothing and dumped in the park, bare of all items except for a card to aid in identification of the body. Precise, relatively clean, remorseful—at the very least.

The hasty shuttering of cameras persists behind him and merges with the hushed chatter of information being exchanged under an agitating film of _deja vu._

How many times have they all been in this exact position before? _Why?_

To no one in particular, simply because he _needs_ to get it out, to hear it, Alfred informs, "It's them again." Of that much, he is certain.

Nevertheless, a scoff sounds from behind him and a mildly agitated voice replies, "Yes, well, we didn't need an I.D. to tell us _that._ Bravo, Captain Obvious. Do you have any other information you would like to divulge that we all can clearly see with our own two eyes?"

He'd recognize that voice, that unrestrained sarcasm anywhere.

Despite the morbidity of their surroundings, Alfred laughs joyfully, smile wide enough to uncomfortably stiffen his cheeks in the cold early morning air. He brings himself to full height and whirls around just in time to capture the agitated spin of green irises. That, too, is horribly familiar.

"Her name's Michelle, if you were wondering," answers Alfred, hands planted defiantly on his hips.

But Arthur… Arthur is not wondering. His thick eyebrows draw so close together that they very nearly connect as he angrily snarls, "I thought you were handling this!"

"I am!"

And he is! In his own way. These things don't come easily.

"Is _this,_ " Arthur yells, stabbing an accusing finger to the lifeless woman being zipped up within a coroner's bag. "—what you call 'handling it?' Because, if so, I think it's time to reevaluate the team placed on this case. You're moving so slowly you might as well not being moving _at all_."

"This shit takes time, Artie!" Alfred insists, shuffling backwards when Arthur comes stomping forward until they are particularly chest-to-chest. From one body to the next, Arthur's finger relocates to jab harshly into Alfred's sternum. He almost crumbles with the pure force of it.

The people around them appear unaware of their aggravated standoff, no doubt already well-accustomed to Arthur's notorious temper. _A big bomb, a short fuse,_ the gossip says. When things are not going his way, when things are moving much too slowly for his liking, he tends to bend and snap under the pressure of all the stress. Alfred is bearing the brunt of it now.

"Too much time, if you ask me."

Blunt. Curt. Like a shot to the heart.

Alfred has no valid response for that statement. It is true. The bodies continue to pile up. More innocent victims are being subjected to malicious attacks because of his incompetence. With an exasperated sigh, he visibly deflates, pushing a hand through his wind-tousled hair.

What can he say to that? Other than: he's trying.

This. This vicious string of attacks is linked to something bigger than all of them. Bigger than den registrations and magic-less havens. So large, in fact, that Alfred has to risk his life by turning to non-human allies. A maneuver that must always be a _last_ resort.

Anxious, Alfred shuffles his feet. He has been putting off notifying Arthur of his plans, but now seems to be the time to confess.

"I owe Braginsky a favor in exchange for a... favor," murmurs Alfred, in an attempt to assuage Arthur's concerns.

Cautiously, Arthur inquires, "What kind of favors?"

A beat. A pause. Then,

"Favors that can only be exchanged when… off-duty."

Arthur does not have to voice his disappointment, his _disgust_ this time around. The downward tug of his entire mouth, the coldness of his hard gaze says it all. Alfred is not worth the words sealed behind his tightly pursed lips. His nostrils flare irritably and he turns to duck beneath the caution tape, leaving Alfred to fill in the blanks.

* * *

The car arrives outside the precinct within record time. Arthur's foot had hardly left the gas pedal during the drive over. His eyes, stony and fiery like hot coals, never left the road.

The atmosphere is left suffocatingly silent. A veil of quiet that is punctured only by the muted sound of their car doors slamming shut.

For the first time in years, Alfred is genuinely happy to be back at the station. His energy is not instantly sapped away by the incessant buzz of chatter and phones that ring without end; squeezed all into one cramped, confined space with an alarming lack of windows, an abundance of desks overflowing with paperwork and files, and dreary exposed rafters and piping.

He is so eager to get away from the tension between himself and Arthur that he takes a moment to appreciate the shitty little building they've all been shoved into. So eager that he does not immediately turn down Francis' invitation to converse. Though, he does try to escape, halted by the labyrinth that is their place of work.

His foot ends up entangled in a bundle of cords, sending him careening toward the water dispenser. Arthur shoulders past him, still in a blaze of anger. The shove rights Alfred's balance. Unfortunately, the tower of paper cups does not fare as well when Arthur steps in his office, yanking the door shut behind him. They tumble to the floor as the entire place vibrates with the power of it.

"Another one?" Francis asks, jerking a thumb behind him to indicate his question is in reference to Arthur's terrible mood.

Alfred huffs as he untangles the cords strangling his ankle. "Yeah." Then, in explanation, "College student. Freshman. It's like they're getting younger and younger and we're getting no closer to stopping it."

Francis hums in response, nodding solemnly while leaning back in his chair. It squeaks pathetically in protest.

"Let's chat about something a bit more light-hearted, then. Shall we?"

Stupidly, Alfred agrees, not at all recognizing the gleeful glimmer in Francis' eyes as he is unknowingly guided into participating in petty gossip.

"So… Who have you been romancing?"

Right away with the interrogation.

"No one," he answers easily, sidling past the nosy man without so much as a glance, which is truly a commendable feat, considering that involves squeezing between Francis' chair and the steel filing cabinet not even a foot away from it. But Alfred will be damned if he willingly plays into the greedy hands of Office Gossip, Francis Bonnefoy. As the saying goes: _Fool me once, shame on you_. _Fool me twice…_ Well, he's making sure it doesn't come to that.

Alas, despite the awkwardness of Alfred shimmying behind him, Francis does not let up. Rather, he sees the tight fit as an opportunity to continue pestering. And if his chair happens to squish just a bit harder against Alfred's body, that definitely has nothing to do with him. "That vase of three dozen roses on your desk says differently, _mon ami_."

Sure enough, once he escapes the terrors of being pressed to death, he spots a large bunch of startlingly red flowers on the small portion of table that is his own at the single double-sided desk within the whole building.

The blooms resemble the splatter of freshly drawn blood. The petals glide across his fingertips like finely-spun silk. Alfred tugs off the tiny card clipped neatly to the cerulean ribbon wrapped around the curvature of the glass vase. Inside, in dramatic script, it reads, _You're everything a big, bad wolf could want_.

Ah, _three_ dozen. The age-old motif.

Alfred is unable to stop the adoring smile that stretches his lips, even with Francis' eyes glued to his profile. Slipping the note into his pocket, he quickly conjures up an appropriate excuse before the pressure to tell is piled on.

"The Williams family just saying thanks."

"Hm." Francis hums. It sounds like he is evaluating the possibility. "With _roses_?"

He shrugs.

* * *

The one-sided communication between Ivan and Alfred ceases immediately after the delivery of the flowers. There is nothing more to be said. Red is for a favor. Roses are for the Rose Motel. Three dozen are for room number three. Secretive, precise, and straightforward.

They meet in their usual dingy motel room. The one with the dusty yellow curtains and the water stain that steadily crawls across the ceiling, growing wider and wider which each rendezvous. The one with the dried brown spots (mysteriously similar to that of oxidized blood) that remain unclean, deemed irremovable, having seeped too deeply into the threads of the frieze carpet.

Old-fashioned wallpaper curls up along the corners, peeling away to escape the weakened plaster beneath. The air is painfully still, dense with the musty smell of dust-laden furniture. Something positively reeks of mildew, the stench sears the fragile nerves within Alfred's nostrils. _Filthy_ , is the perfect description.

Perfectly _normal._ Inconspicuous. The standard motel room.

No one would suspect that beyond the locked door at the opposite end of the bathroom is a suite of romantic paradise (another joke made at the expense of Alfred's emotional sensitivity).

Ivan leads Alfred over the threshold with a heavy hand at the space between his shoulder blades. Those hypnotic violet irises leave him virtually weak in the knees, so he welcomes the support.

His feet travel from cheap tile to pliant, plush carpet. The door swings shut behind them. Immediately, the atmosphere is different here. In this private room, aglow with the flickering flames of candles and the sweet aroma of a cologne with the clean smell of pristine linens, "a favor" has transformed from an act of business to a personal affair. Here, away from the watchful eyes of others, he and Ivan are no longer enemies. Here, they are simply that: Alfred and Ivan, two men dealt an unfortunate hand of cards.

"Are you trying to seduce me again, Braginsky?" Alfred asks, cockily raising an eyebrow; an action so contrary to the rapid beating of his heart against his ribs.

The man guffaws at this query, the first sound he's made all night. "I am merely playing up your fantasies. The sneaking around, the seclusion..."

Ivan's voice trails off, his hand traces farther down the hidden ridges of Alfred's spine, raising goosebumps, as he leans forward to whisper huskily into his ear, "The _romance._ "

It is Alfred's turn to chuckle. The familiarity of their banter helps to remind him of who's really in control here.

Romance. It's a laughable concept, regardless of the way in which it makes him shiver with anticipation, _want_. Amidst all the pain and suffering, the murder and death, does anyone really have time for love? Cupid has forsaken them all.

Alfred turns the tables with a firm hand against Ivan's chest, chasing him backwards until they encounter the unyielding weight of the bed. Ivan goes down without a fight, flopping back against the mattress. It is the devilish smirk and smouldering gaze that betrays his giddiness.

"Ivan," Alfred sighs, wistfully.

The bed dips beneath the press of his knee. He settles his hands against the lapels of Ivan's suit jacket, swings a legs across the man's body to sit astride his hips. Alfred drops his bottom heavily into Ivan's lap, perched like he belongs there. Satin ripples and meanders about the shape of their bodies atop the sheets, flowing like water.

"Kiss me."

Ivan is a man of possession; he wants nothing but to own. A true Alpha. He does not miss a single beat, lurching Alfred forward forcibly by fingers anchored firmly into the skin at his waist. Alfred goes willingly.

They pause to stare into one another's eyes, a breath away, searching for _something._ A moment so intimate that Alfred hesitates. His body tenses, he prepares to end this here, but then Ivan is kissing him with all the gentleness of a lovesick _human_ when his humanity has long-since been gone. Soft and chaste, though made all the more passionate by its lack of lust. A sickening fluttering builds in Alfred's stomach that has absolutely nothing to do with the tickle of arousal.

 _Love?_

A needy moan punches out of him and he pleads _more,_ licking along the seam of Ivan's lips, desperate for a taste of exactly that.

"Fuck!" Ivan hisses in pain, tugging back, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. "What the hell did you do?"

Momentarily, Alfred is confused, startled and disappointed by the suddenness of Ivan's departure. Then he remember.

 _Oh, right..._ that.

He opens his mouth to expose a tiny stud of pure silver embedded in the pink flesh of his tongue. It glints and shimmers, capturing the dancing flames of the candle withering away on the nightstand.

"Bitch," Ivan says almost endearingly. Interest comes in the form of a hand sliding through the hair at the back of Alfred's head, an eager pressure coaxing him forth into a proper kiss this time.

"Masochist," teases Alfred, eyelids growing heavy with desire. But, nonetheless, he complies, sinking fully into the man beneath him.

 _Love?_ There is nothing romantic about pain.


End file.
